Portals and Ghosts

"Wonder always comes with a price. The question is—who’s collecting?"

Rubbing my tired eyes, I stretched my arms heavenward, a long-limbed sigh to the pale morning skies of Clivilius—sky painted in soft washes of peach and pearl, as if the world itself had only just remembered how to breathe. The air here felt different. Not just cleaner, or lighter—but purposeful. Like the wind itself had somewhere to be.

This place, with all its strangeness and shimmer, had begun to press itself into my bones. And yet, it hadn’t lost its power to humble. The light didn’t just fall here—it bloomed, as though it were alive.

Still groggy from sleep, I stepped forward toward the Portal, my movements quiet and instinctive, like muscle memory forged in another life. Its glow called to me, steady and hypnotic, a familiar ripple of colour dancing in the periphery of my vision. That swirl of light—like an aurora borealis with caffeine in its system—cast shifting shadows across the ground, each one a flicker of some alternate self, walking some alternate path.

The hum in the air grew louder the closer I got. Static tickled across my skin, the tiny hairs on my arms lifting in a soft chorus of anticipation. The Portal pulsed, not just with energy, but with something stranger. Intent. As though it saw me, recognised me, accepted me.

And then I stepped through.

Every time, it hit me like a plunge into liquid light—a cool, immersive sea of colour and vibration. The world dissolved, exploded, recomposed. Time lost its grip. For a heartbeat—or maybe longer—I was nothing but motion and feeling and awe. Like standing at the centre of a supernova, wrapped in the raw breath of creation itself.

No matter how many times I passed through, it still caught me off guard. Still left my pulse racing and my breath slightly shallower than before. Maybe that was what wonder was supposed to feel like. Not comfort. Not clarity. But disorientation threaded with beauty.

But today, the awe faded quickly—displaced by something more mundane, more annoying.

Frustration.

I’d stepped into Clivilius for all of fifty seconds. Just long enough to pass through, blink at the light, and immediately move on. No time to linger, no time to breathe in the world that had, somehow, become half-mine.

I transitioned again, this time from the afterglow of otherworldliness to the earthy familiarity of Luke’s living room. The scent of strong coffee and met me like an old friend.

But my thoughts were still snagged on the Portal. On the detour. On the strange logic of the technology that had rewired my life.

Yes, it was revolutionary. The Portal Keys let us do the impossible—bend space to our will, reduce vast distances to nothing more than a press of a tiny button and mental projections of intent. Luke and I could share our Portal destinations on Earth like bookmarks. I could step out of my house and into his in the time it took to blink.

But why—why—did I have to pass through Clivilius every single time?

What was the point of that extra hop? It wasn’t even a proper stopover—just a flash, a midpoint that felt oddly ceremonial for something that was meant to be practical.

Was it a bug? A fail-safe? Some hidden law of Portal travel that we hadn’t yet uncovered?

Or worse… was it intentional?

I couldn't shake the feeling that the Portals weren’t just tools—they were watching us too.

"Hello?" Luke's voice echoed down the hallway, slicing clean through the fog of my discomfort like a lighthouse beam cutting through morning mist.

"Hey, Luke," I called back, my voice slipping out on a sigh—a blend of relief and residual irritation. I'd barely crossed the threshold of his living room, still blinking away the last flecks of Portal light, yet somehow, he already knew I was there. Not footsteps. Not doors creaking. Just... sensed. Like the space itself had told him I’d arrived.

I pressed forward, greeted by the familiar warmth of his shared kitchen-living area, the scent of recent coffee and something herbal hanging faintly in the air. His presence, when he emerged, was just as grounding as the space—calm, tousled, and slightly bleary-eyed. The kind of tired that came from being too many things to too many people.

"You're up early," he said, lifting an eyebrow as he leaned against the counter, one hand cradling a chipped mug. There was no judgement in his tone—just observation, tinted with mild surprise.

"I didn't sleep very well," I replied, my body already moving into the half-yawned, full-bodied stretch that had become my habitual defence against fatigue. My spine cracked, softly but decisively, as I reached skyward. "I've already taken more painkillers than I probably should, and my head is still pounding." The words spilled out without polish, raw and dry around the edges. My voice had that frayed-lace quality it always picked up when I hadn't slept properly—thin, scratchy, and half-detached from my body.

Luke didn’t flinch. Didn’t offer platitudes or fuss. Just tilted his head slightly and gave me that look—equal parts knowing and kind.

"Tell me about it," he said, voice low and gravelly with his own fatigue. The simple phrase held weight—not just empathy, but shared experience. It wrapped around me like a cardigan pulled off a hook and slung over my shoulders. A wordless reminder: you’re not the only one unravelled this morning.

And somehow, that mattered more than sleep ever could.

Compelled by a sudden, gnawing hunger, I turned toward the fridge like a sleepwalker guided by instinct more than intent. My fingers curled around the cold metal handle, bracing for salvation. The soft suction-pop of the seal breaking was absurdly loud in the quiet of the morning. I tugged the door open, only for my hopes to plummet with the same unceremonious thud as my stomach.

Empty shelves, save for a half-used jar of mustard, a limp carrot in the crisper, and what might’ve once been yoghurt—now a suspicious science experiment in a corner. The fridge was a tundra of forgotten groceries and Guardian negligence. A sigh slipped out of me, long and low.

"Alcohol already?" Luke’s voice floated over, the teasing lilt in it catching like static in my already fraying mood. I turned, catching the playful glint in his eyes. The soft morning light only made him look more annoyingly smug.

"Fuck off. I’m not Gladys," I snapped, the words flaring out before I could temper them. Too sharp, maybe—but the suggestion struck a nerve, and I hadn’t the energy for tact.

"Sorry," he said, holding up a hand, though the corners of his mouth twitched with restrained laughter. His apology was more habit than remorse, the kind people offer when they know they’ve poked the bear but still find it amusing.

"We have muesli bars," he added, moving on without missing a beat, his tone a casual truce as he opened the pantry and pulled out a box like it contained treasure.

My stomach growled its own response, a dry rasp of protest that echoed louder than I liked. I stared at the box with withering disdain. This was what passed for breakfast? A glorified trail snack? My silence said more than I cared to verbalise.

"They're choc-chip," Luke added, voice sly with mirth, like that detail would somehow elevate the bar to haute cuisine.

My frown deepened, carved now from equal parts disappointment and hunger. Seriously? A fucking muesli bar? My thoughts hissed, but the low churn of my gut betrayed me. I wasn’t above eating it—I just resented that I had to.

"Fine," I muttered, flicking a hand towards him in half-defeat. He tossed the box, and I caught it without thought—muscle memory from another life, the kind that involved snatched wallets and quick getaways.

I tore open the wrapper like it owed me something and shoved half the bar into my mouth, chewing with grim efficiency. The texture was predictably awful—dry oats trying to masquerade as breakfast, studded with perfunctory dots of chocolate that melted too fast to matter. Still, it was food. Sort of.

Walking across the living room, I let the rhythm of my steps fill the quiet, each footfall softened by the worn carpet beneath. The space, with its lived-in warmth and cluttered charm, had become strangely familiar—framed photos, the faint scent of coffee in the air, that one chair that always creaked in protest. It all served as a calm, domestic backdrop to the morning's minor melodrama.

I chewed thoughtfully, the edges of my earlier irritation beginning to blur. The crunch of oats gave way to that fleeting pop of sweetness—one rogue chocolate chip melting across my tongue like a truce offering. I sighed through my nose. Maybe not everything was conspiring to annoy me.

"Any plans for today?" I asked, voice muffled by the mouthful of mediocrity I was still begrudgingly chewing. The question wasn’t just idle—it was an olive branch, a verbal reach across the slight chill that had crept between us earlier.

Luke didn’t look up. He tore into his own muesli bar with the nonchalance of someone tossing a match into a dry field. "You're going to visit Grant Ironbach and bring him to Clivilius."

I stopped dead in my tracks, the remnants of the muesli bar suddenly gritty and dry on my tongue. The simple act of swallowing felt like a betrayal. I turned slowly to face him, eyes narrowing, lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line.

He was maddeningly casual, as if he’d just asked me to post a letter or pick up milk. As if Grant bloody Ironbach was just another errand.

"It’ll be good practice for you," he added, glancing up finally, his tone laced with that infuriating mentor’s calm—equal parts encouragement and condescension, like he genuinely thought framing it as ‘practice’ would soften the blow.

My eyebrow rose of its own volition. Practice? Was he serious?

"People aren’t my thing," I said flatly, the words a truth etched into my bones. Not a confession, but a reminder. I wasn’t built for glad-handing or convincing strangers to step through magical Portals and accept new destinies. I dealt in realities, in instincts and silences. Not… recruitment.

Luke's demeanour shifted—the lightness evaporating as swiftly as breath on a windowpane. “I already have to get Adrian,” he said, and something in his voice hardened. It wasn’t stern exactly, but it was laced with purpose—the kind that closed doors to negotiation before you even reached them.

The name didn’t ring any bells. “Who’s Adrian?” I asked, chewing slower now, half to buy time and half because curiosity had momentarily distracted me from how dry this muesli bar really was.

“He’s a construction engineer. Runs his own company,” Luke replied, his tone taking on a faint edge of admiration that caught my ear. It was rare, hearing that kind of unguarded respect from him. “He did the building inspection for this place when Jamie and I bought it. Nial is great with fences, but I think the group needs more... professional help.”

A brief silence settled between us, filled with the crunch of oats and the unspoken implications of what we were building—or failing to build—back in Clivilius. The chocolate chips were the only comfort to be found, and even they felt a bit apologetic.

“I suspect you’re right there,” I admitted, not without reluctance. The words tasted like compromise, and I wasn’t particularly fond of that flavour. Still, he had a point. Makeshift only worked for so long before everything collapsed—usually at the worst possible moment.

Luke took my agreement as permission to forge ahead. He leaned slightly against the counter, confidence creeping back into his frame like ivy reclaiming a wall. “I’m going to arrange to meet with him at the Collinsvale property tomorrow morning.”

Of course he was. Plans already set in motion, whether I’d agreed to my part or not. Typical.

A long and loud honk shattered the morning tranquillity, its discordant blare cutting clean through the soft hush that had settled over Luke’s house like morning mist. I flinched, every muscle tightening on instinct. Without thinking, my body moved—silent, swift. Muscle memory from darker days took over, carrying me to the large front window with the practised grace of someone used to not being seen.

The venetian blinds rattled faintly beneath my fingertips. Each slat felt like a barrier, a prison bar separating safety from exposure. I parted them with a deft, quiet motion, just enough to peer out.

My breath caught.

Across the road, parked with too much deliberation to be coincidence, sat a vehicle I recognised instantly. The sight of it yanked me backward through time—through every narrow escape, every whispered warning, every time I’d forced myself to believe the worst was behind me. Behind the wheel sat Karl.

I recoiled like I’d been struck. The blinds snapped shut with a sharp, accusing clatter. My pulse thundered in my ears.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Luke said from behind me, his tone steady, aiming to soothe. “There are always hoons on that road.”

But no amount of calm logic could dull the razor’s edge of dread that now ran beneath my skin.

“No,” I said quickly, more sharply than I meant to. My head shook with urgency, my voice too sure to be casual. “I think the house is being watched.”

That changed the air between us. Luke’s brow knit tightly, his mouth thinning as he rubbed his forehead—a tell I’d come to know well. He was calculating now, scanning the possibilities. I stood frozen, locked in my own private war. Should I say it? Should I speak his name? Would that make it real?

“Did you recognise the person?” Luke asked, his voice low but focused, his eyes on me now.

“No,” I lied, smooth as glass. “It was too quick.” The words felt like pebbles in my mouth—small but jagged. I couldn’t say Karl’s name. Not yet. Not here. Not without being sure.

“Have another look then,” Luke said, gesturing toward the blinds. It wasn’t a demand, just a prompt—a door he was offering for me to walk through.

I hesitated, then approached the window again, my fingers less steady this time. I parted the blinds.

“He’s gone!” My voice cracked with tension. The blinds fluttered back, and I stepped away, heart pounding a rhythm of warning.

“Gone?” Luke echoed, calm but attentive. His presence anchored me, but it didn’t stop the rising tide inside.

Why the hell is Karl parked across the road? The thought screamed through me like a siren. There was no innocent explanation—not from him. Whatever he was doing here, it wasn’t coincidence. And it sure as hell wasn’t good.

“We’d better get out of here for a while,” I said, more to the room than to Luke, as if speaking the words aloud might give me some semblance of control.

There was no time for debate. I reached for my Portal Key, my fingers tightening around its shape like it was a lifeline. I aimed it at the wall with a mechanical swiftness, finger pressing the activation with just enough force to hide the tremor.

Light bloomed, and I stepped through the Portal—leaving behind Luke’s house, the threat outside, and the sickening certainty that Karl’s reappearance meant the past was no longer content to stay buried.

My body moved forward. But my thoughts stayed tangled, trailing behind in that living room like smoke.